Recovery
by wingedraksha
Summary: The war is over. Life as they knew it is over. For John Allerdyce, the gesture of one girl doing everything possible to move beyond the past could kindle hatred, resentment... or forgiveness. Kyro, as always.


She was walking fast, already late. She had a class to teach at three, and it was ten 'til. Kitty hopped over a curb and tripped on a broken bottle that some moron had dropped, squeaking as she stumbled forward. A hand was suddenly around her elbow, catching her before she could fall and steadying her briefly. Kitty looked down at the hand, surprised. It wasn't exactly normal for someone to bother to catch anyone in busy, hectic New York City. The fingers were thin, but strong, and in the moment before it was drawn away, she could see burn marks on the back of the hand.

Her good Samaritan moved past her, brushing by her shoulder as he hurried on his way. She caught a glimpse of strangely familiar honey-colored eyes and a face that rang too many alarm bells in her mind. Kitty reached out and caught his arm.

"Wait. Oh, my God," she said as he turned towards her. "John?" His hair had gone back to its natural brown, and had grown out almost as long as he'd worn it before leaving with Magneto and Mystique. Instead of being slicked back, though, it fell messily across his face, accentuating his eyes and just-as-sensuous-as-she-remembered mouth. His face had changed, though, from the last time she'd seen him. It was narrower, the features sharper, the eyes gleaming with a feral kind of vitality that she usually associated with jungle cats or wolves. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans, the combat boots replaced with worn-out sneakers.

John Allerdyce stared at her blankly for a moment before recognition flashed in those intense eyes.

"Oh. Kitty, right? Hey." She let go of his arm and wrapped her own arms around her waist protectively, studying him in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" She wanted to ask, 'why aren't you in prison?', but didn't. Some of the old shyness had lived through the war. He shrugged, looking indifferent.

"Nothing."

"What about… don't you… what HAPPENED to you? After Alcatraz?" She expected him to snap at her, or to sneer, or to just walk away. Instead, he just shrugged again, the spark that had come into his eyes upon recognizing her gone. Now, he just looked tired and… and blank, like nothing mattered anymore.

"Went after Magneto," he said flatly. "He was fucked up, that's for sure. Tried to shoot me, actually." He said this in such a lifeless, even tone that it took her just a second to understand. Kitty gasped.

"He did what?!" She had the brief thought that this was, in fact, ridiculous: standing in the middle of the sidewalk, late for her class, talking to Pyro of all people.

"They got him with the Cure, you know? And he kind of… lost hope. Lost everything along with his powers. So when I showed up, wanting to know what to do next, I guess he just snapped. Here I was, with all my big, cool powers, and what did he have left? Jack shit. He said it was useless now, and that it'd be better if I just died now before they Cured me or locked me up. Said it wasn't like I had anything besides the Brotherhood. Not like anyone would miss me, you know? And then he tried to shoot me."

"John, I… I'm sorry." She didn't know what else to say. He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"For what? He was right."

"That's not true," she protested, though not strongly. She'd lost the part of her that could fight for redemption after seeing fifty soldiers turn to dust. "You could have come back to the mansion."

"You're right," he said, a hint of sarcasm coming into his voice. His eyes, though, remained dead. "That's a brilliant idea." Kitty frowned.

"You could still come back. We're the good guys, right?" He blinked at her, looking genuinely surprised.

"Kitty," John said bluntly, "there are no good guys."

"That's not true." She ignored the fact that she'd been asking herself that question every night since Alcatraz. "That's not true, Pyro." He shrugged for a third time.

"Whatever." With that, he turned and started off down the street. Kitty gritted her teeth and followed him, walking quickly.

"No. You don't get to just walk away. Not after everything." He didn't look at her, but walked faster. He wasn't exactly tall, but he was a good five inches taller than she was and she had to struggle to keep up with his longer strides.

"What are you doing, Kitty? Go away."

"You have to talk to me!"

"And say what? What do you care?"

"Tell me-" She broke off, breath hitching. "You have to tell me what's wrong with you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You should be locked up, Pyro," she said, almost jogging alongside him now. "You should be, for what you did. But you're walking around New York, and you're- you're all… you don't deserve to be broken! You don't deserve to be numb!" He stopped abruptly, and she wheeled around to face him.

"Why? Should I be screaming in a dark little hole somewhere because of all the horrible things I've done? Should I hate myself? Should I wish I was dead?"

"You don't get to not care." She was breathing hard. "Why should you get to when I- when I-"

"When you lie awake at night and wonder if you did the right thing. Wonder where you went wrong. Wonder if you could have changed anything. Wonder if it's too late. Wonder if you could have saved anyone, even just yourself. When you act like everything's okay, or you act like you're dead after all, just to hide the fact that you have. Nothing. Left."

She stared at him, eyes wide and filled with tears because there was feeling, life, in those beautiful eyes now, and the emotion was pain.

So this was what had happened to Pyro. To fiery, rebellious, daredevil John.

He had burned out.

"I don't want to be what I am," Kitty whispered to him on the busy, noisy sidewalk. "I want to be a good guy. And I don't want it to be too late, John. There's been too many too lates."

And suddenly his arms were around her in a fierce, desperate hug and she clung to him, no tears falling, her breathing hard and ragged. There was no affection in the hug, no friendship or camaraderie, but there was need and loneliness and pleading for it to be all right.

When they pulled away, John's eyes had a little more life in them. A little more spark. Kitty took a deep breath.

"I have a class to teach. I'm subbing for Storm in English. We're supposed to be doing poetry, but I don't know anything about poetry. Didn't you used to write it?" He nodded slowly, a look of careful wonder on his face. She took his hand gently, feeling the smoothness of the burned places on his palm, and looked down at his arm. The sleeve of his sweatshirt was rolled up a little, and she could see not-so-old scars across his wrist. He saw her looking, but did not move. Kitty met his gaze. "You want to help me teach it?"

John smiled.


End file.
